The battlefield was no longer a battlefield.
It was a graveyard of faith.
The once-proud encampment of the Holy Order—lined with sacred relics and golden tents—was now a canvas of flame and ash. The crimson moon hung overhead like an omen, casting long shadows across the valley of corpses. The scent of charred flesh and spilled blood suffocated the wind.
The screams had changed.
No longer cries of resistance—but wails of regret, horror, and helpless death.
Paladins, once symbols of divine justice, fled like prey. Their prayers dissolved into bloodied gurgles. Blades clanged against shadows that did not bleed. Some fought. Most begged. None escaped.
Lucian staggered through the carnage, his sword slick with gore, but shaking in his grasp. His armor, once resplendent, now looked like a broken shrine—mud-stained, bloodied, cracked at the seams. His golden cape dragged behind him like a burial shroud.
He watched as men he had sworn to protect were dragged into the night, their final screams stolen mid-breath. The firelight cast grotesque shadows across the field, and every corner of his vision seemed to whisper: You've lost. You were never worthy.
"This isn't war," Lucian muttered, trembling. "This… this is damnation."
Then he felt it.
A pressure.
A weight.
As if the very air turned to stone.
It wasn't divine.
It wasn't magical.
It was something worse.
Inevitable.
He turned—slow, instinctive. Dread already churning in his gut.
And there—atop a mound of the fallen—stood Kael.
Framed by firelight and smoke, his silhouette loomed tall and untouchable. His black coat glinted with silver threads that shimmered like the void. No blood stained him. Not a single mark marred his form. His eyes—red as a dying star—glowed with the calm of one who had already won.
Lucian couldn't move.
Kael descended the hill of corpses like a god descending a throne—each step slow, deliberate, cruel. His presence twisted the battlefield with every stride. The flames bowed. The shadows deepened.
Then he spoke.
"I expected more, Lucian."
Not anger. Not triumph.
Just disappointment.
Lucian felt rage flare, but it was brittle—shattered even before it rose.
His hands gripped his sword. He forced his legs to hold.
"You think this is over?" he snapped, forcing strength into a voice that cracked. "So long as I stand—"
Kael vanished.
Lucian's throat clenched.
Something cold—metal—kissed his neck.
He hadn't seen him move.
Couldn't even breathe.
Every nerve screamed. But his body wouldn't respond. It couldn't.
Kael's voice came as a whisper—intimate and terrifying.
"You're trembling."
Lucian's eyes widened.
Kael stepped back with surgical grace, letting the silence stretch.
"I thought you were a lion." He tilted his head. "Instead, I find a broken dog. One that barks behind armies and prayers."
Lucian tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
His sword slipped from his fingers. His knees buckled.
He was kneeling.
Kneeling before Kael.
The weight of failure, of shattered belief, of divine silence—crushed him.
Kael stared down at him, face unreadable.
"Do you regret it?" he asked softly.
Lucian couldn't look up.
"Do you regret standing against me? Against truth? Against power you never understood?"
No answer.
Kael turned, voice colder now.
"You never stood a chance."
And then he walked away—unhurried, untouched, unchallenged.
Lucian collapsed forward, his face pressed into blood and dirt. His hands dug into the ground, as if clawing for an answer, a reason, a god.
None came.
The Holy Order was not defeated.
It was erased.
Kael hadn't taken their lives.
He had taken their purpose.
To be continued…